


Dreams of Destiny

by hopingfordestiny



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:18:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopingfordestiny/pseuds/hopingfordestiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You dream of destiny and hope, higher callings and glowing skin. You dream of a life other than the one you were given, devoid of anything resembling purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams of Destiny

Seer  
that word evokes a million thoughts from you, exploding inward in a cacophony of memories that shine with fairy dust and sparkle in the light of your brain. Except fairy dust is fake, as fake as wands and your memories, as fake as your mother's promise to be there for you forever and always, almost as fake as the love you had found and lost, as fake than your visions, as fake as your facade, as fake as your life.  
But of course you must never let your guard slip, never let on a hint to anyone that you are slowly going out of your mind, quaking in the confines of reality, enough to make you want to uproot it with the power you once posessed, given to you as a boon by the gods of the furthest ring- but no. You do not possess those powers, never have, and never will.  
The body was found in your house, in the attic. You were found there too, spittle caking your lips, skin drier than particularly dry desert sand, and as hot. Around you were scrawled messages, composed of gibberish and random arrangements of letters in a way that you suppose could have meaning. AYANAK, NHOJ, EVAD, EDAJ.  
You have convinced yourself they have no meaning. You have long ago craked the code, as it is a simple reversal. You can imagine faint faces and shadows of bodies when you mutter the words to yourself. John, Jade, Dave, Kanaya. You can conjure up their silhouettes, and you can almost bring back their faces.  
You dream of luminous skin, manicured nails, and perhaps strangest of all, candy corn.  
\--  
Strange fingers wrap around yours, enveloping them in what you can only think to be described as blanket of sweat.  
You crack a small smile at your wit and he takes offense.  
"Is this...some kind of joke to you Rose?" His voice crackes almost imperceptibly, and his fingers loosen around yours. You brush up against him, making sure that you convey the right amount of adoration in your expression. His breath comes out steamy and hot as he leans against the cold metallic park bench with you at his shoulder. The night is dry and silent except for your muted conversation. You shift your legs into a more comfortable position and you imagine the grass shudders where you touch it, wilt and decay as they pass into the void, sent there by the seer of light as she wields her wands of black light.  
"Of course not, I was just pondering what a beautiful night it is." You stare up at the winking stars as his grip tightens and sweat seeps into the pores of your skin, into your muscles, into your skeleton, into your soul as the wind rushes by.  
\--  
You have become thin. So thin. You can see your rib bones, you feel weak all the time, you have an insatiable hunger that you must control as you would a dog on a leash.  
You have become detached and remote, floating away in the space that is your mind, devoid of light and all that you once were, and you cry out into the blackness that sorrounds you.  
\--  
You were found with the body of your departed mother, stabbed through the chest, alchol surrounding her body. You are not sure if this is irony or poetic justice to have died sorrounded by the only constant thing in her short life. The blood was caked on to her body, flaking away. Your hands were immaculate and blood free.  
The police had said you were babbling, and you have no doubt you were.  
The Attic was dusty with misuse, if a teenager sitting there going insane beside her dead's mom body could be counted as misuse.  
The Police had also found a book comprising of nothing but meows, and another more mundane journal telling the story of wizard Herbert in confusing flowery prose.  
\--  
"Here. Go get some water." The policeman pushes you away from him towards a rusty drinking fountain, as if eager to get as far away from you as his current job allowed. You have no doubt thats what was happening. You bend your head over, eagerly sucking liquid up into your body, even if it is flecked with rust. You savor the cool sensation as you look around you. This is the first chance you have had to examine your surroundings unhindered by psychologists and lawmen. The floor and walls of the place where you were contained were made of cold gray stone, with a few uncomfortable chairs scattered around the edges of the room like fallen leaves. A few outdated magazines were littered by these chairs, but of course you have read them already. More importantly you could see at the end of the hallway the room led into, where a door led to the outside world. A few windows decorated the hallway, but they were shut, and if you tried to escape you wouldn't have the time to open them before the police came and seized you and locked you up again. The building is small, perhaps five rooms. You do not know where you are, or even if you are in the same state as where you used to live.  
You have analyzed this in a few seconds and focus.  
You remeber being able to see once, see and guide others to success. Unsuprisingly your mind remains as it always was and will be; normal and powerless. You know this, and yet you can't longing for a time where the seer guided as a conductor does an orchestra, finely tunes, ruling over all, seer of fortune and luck, guider of warriors and heirs, witches and knights-  
\--  
They have ruled out you murdering your mother, as you were found weapon less and without wounds or blood on you, aside from your derelict condition. Numerous psychologists have poked and prodded you-metaphorically of course-trying to discern what happened.  
Eventually you are released upon the world again.  
It is not hard to escape the foster home you are put in,  
It is even easier to evade the police.  
\--  
And so here you are, attempting and succeeding at pandering to a rich boy on a cold winter's night. You pretend he is glowing and horned and female, and it is a bit easier. You have survived this long, by your cunning and wit. You are not going to lose. You will survive, no matter the cost.  
The night ends well, you think as you kiss. You kiss back, but there is no meaning behind it, none at all. You know you are going insane, but you can't find the will to give a fuck at this point.


End file.
